See also: Old-School Meets Old World at Cafe Prague in Morrison

There's just one server on duty at this in-between time, a Polish bartender who takes my food and drink order with the relaxed conviviality of a small-town diner waitress. She even helps me pronounce the name of the Polish porter I order to start my meal: It's Zywiec, and she says she's heard it mangled so badly she didn't even know what the customer wanted. Knowing I wouldn't come close, I just asked for a porter -- the only one on the menu. Next time I'll know, more or less: it sounds like zheh-vi-etz, with the stress on the final syllable. Zywiec Porter is strong and roasty and bitter, just the drink to accompany what I'm hoping will be a passable schnitzel. The menu at Polished doesn't stray too far from dishes that my Ukrainian grandmother would have recognized: pierogi (from the owner's White Eagle Foods pierogi company), kielbasa from Sawa Meat and Sausage, borscht, blood sausage, potato pancakes and cabbage rolls (called golabki in Polish; my grandmother would have called them holupchi). There are also a few American dishes -- bar standards and kitchen staples -- but I stick with the schnitzel, a pounded pork cutlet that comes with fried potatoes, dill cucumber salad and, for two bucks more, mushroom sauce.

It's not a long wait for my dinner -- just long enough for a remixed version of "Baby Got Back" and a news video on the muted TV showing two kangaroos boxing in a suburban neighborhood in Australia. My plate arrives, a fancy diamond-shaped platter well suited for the polished, black and silver decor of the place -- if not the simple, rustic fare presented on it.

Potatoes, cucumbers and pork -- a meal served to generations of countless country farmers and villagers across a Slavic countryside spanning several countries. The potatoes are sliced into thin rounds and deep-fried to a golden crisp, pale and soft where they overlapped in the fryer basket. The cucumber salad with its strong, herbal presence of dill smells and tastes exactly like my grandmother's -- a summer farm mixture held together with a sour cream dressing.

The schnitzel is the best I've had so far in this month of breaded cutlets. The meat is pencil-thick and tender; the bread-crumb coating is perfectly cooked and loudly crunchy. The sauce, more like a gravy, has an odd orange tint, like a cheese sauce, but is rich and creamy with a subtle mushroom flavor, cut by a drizzle of what must have been balsamic vinegar. I take turns tasting the porter and the schnitzel until both are gone, and then I use the potatoes to mop up the last of the gravy and the remnants of the sour-cream dressing from the salad.

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I can picture the subterranean spot on a busier night, packed with black leather jackets and buzzing with the sibilant whisper of Polish beneath a house beat and the hard smack of empty vodka shots hitting the bar top. I prefer a quieter atmosphere over the dark, metropolitan scene, one where I can learn a new word and savor a beer without having to shout to be heard. But I'd come back at any hour for a plate of good schnitzel, although later in the evening I'd also order a house-infused vodka or two -- garlic or horseradish, most likely, just to balance the modern and shiny with something homey and unsophisticated.